


Kickass Boots

by kate_the_reader



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, M/M, Misunderstood, Pirates, Public Display of Affection, Stubble, trope bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 05:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11639700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: It’s when he’s googling “parrots for rent” that Arthur wonders if he’s taking this whole pirates thing too seriously, but then he finds someone ready to rent out his macaw and he thinks, “Fuck, why the hell not?”





	Kickass Boots

**Author's Note:**

> My final four-trope bingo fic: pirates, stubble, misunderstood, public display of affection.
> 
> Once again, thanks to the best co-conspirators, mycitruspocket and MsBrightsideSH. We had a lot of fun brainstorming this one.

It’s when he’s googling “parrots for rent” that Arthur wonders if he’s taking this whole pirates thing too seriously, but then he finds someone ready to rent out his macaw and he thinks, “Fuck, why the hell not?”

Finding the outfits is easier, thank god, and he even thinks his is pretty flattering, in a flourishy sort of way — tight breeches, of course, and a flouncy white shirt. There’s a sash as well, to thrust his sword into, and really very kickass boots. Eames’ breeches are also tight, oh yes they are, wine-red velvet, and his shirt is slashed down to _there_ and Arthur is actually really looking forward to this now. 

It’s not like they’re bored or anything. Well, he certainly isn't, and he doubts Eames is either — last night Arthur had him trembling and gasping under him for _hours_. But a bit of roleplay could be fun, spice things up a bit. And maybe Eames is a bit bored in general, he hasn't had a forging job in ages. 

Arthur’s practicing with his eyepatch in front of the bathroom mirror, pulling it down at a rakish angle, when he wonders whether he should grow a beard. Pirates all had beards, just think of their names: Blackbeard, Bluebeard … was there a sort-of-blond-with-a-few-reddish-patches-beard? Well, maybe not in legend, but there’s always a first, and Eames is unique anyway. 

Arthur _hates_ letting his beard grow. He hates the way it itches, and he hates how messy is it, and even though his hair’s really dark and thick, his beard never is and it’s just annoying. But, if he’s doing this, he’s going to go all in.

“What are you doing in there, darling?” Eames calls from the bedroom where he’s sprawled on the bed dangling a bit of string for the cat that sometimes wanders in from who knows where. It’s not supposed to be on the bed, but it’s very cute and neither of them has the heart to shoo it out. “Come out here and save me, George has shredded my hand, I may need stitches!”

Arthur shoves the eyepatch into the cupboard under the sink, behind the shower gel neither of them likes, and steps out of the bathroom.

The cat is gnawing on Eames’ hand, kicking with his back feet. “Ow, you little bugger!”

“Get off, George, or you will regret it,” Arthur tells the Siamese sternly, picking him up and setting him aside so he can get into bed. 

“Yes, off you go. Arthur’s here now,” says Eames, holding up his scratched hand. 

Arthur does as he’s expected to, pulling it to his mouth and sucking at the worst of the damage. 

“You’ll live, I think,” he says, settling down and waiting for Eames to fall on top of him. 

*

“What’s this?” says Eames, the next evening, rubbing the back of his fingers up Arthur’s cheek. “Stubble? On my Arthur?” He follows his hand with his mouth. “Mmm, I like it!”

“Well, we’re not seeing anyone. I got lazy.”

“Lucky me,” Eames murmurs, muffled. 

It hasn't started to itch, yet, but it’s only a matter of time. 

Arthur’s still involved in negotiations with the macaw guy, who thinks he’s renting it out for a movie and insists he usually accompanies the bird. Arthur can see how that would be normal practice, but it’s obviously not possible in this case. It’s taking a while to convince him to let Arthur keep the bird overnight, unsupervised. He’s demanding to know if Arthur’s ever had a pet bird before and Arthur can hardly tell him the nearest he’s got to any pet at all is the neighbor’s itinerant Siamese. 

These kinds of things are so much easier in dreams. Need a bigger gun? There you go. Need a macaw? You’ve got one. And no need to provide it with seed or whatever the hell macaws eat.

Also, how much longer can he hide two pairs of breeches (one wine-red velvet) and two swords, for heaven’s sake! Not to mention the boots. Luckily Eames tends to keep well clear of Arthur’s closets.

It’s starting seem like this may be all a bit insane, but when has Arthur ever backed down from even the most stupid challenge? Not since elementary school, that’s when.

He’s listening to a “pirate ship at sea” soundtrack the next afternoon, scratching idly at his stubble, which _is_ starting to itch, when his email pings and it’s the macaw guy, apparently satisfied with Arthur’s little white lie about his dear grammy’s pet budgie that he used to look after when he was a boy —and the doubled fee — offering to bring the bird over tomorrow for the night.

Now he just has to invent an errand to send Eames on while he acquires the bird and gets everything else ready. The hammock, for example, which he needs to somehow hang up (thank god for exposed beams, up until now just a cool design feature in the bedroom).

Eames thankfully finds his own convenient errand and Arthur has a clear few hours for the bird guy to get there, even taking traffic into account, and for Arthur to get changed.

The bird’s name is Malcolm (what the fuck?). It has a cage and a bag of food.

“He’s real friendly,” says the guy, “he’s used to people, being a movie star and all. He’ll sit on your shoulder. Here,” he says, opening the cage and getting the bird out. “He’s real calm.” 

Arthur tries not to flinch when Malcolm tightens its claws on his shoulder, and is only glad he’s not wearing a suit. “Oh, right,” he says, hoping he seems like a man with a budgie in his past. “Bit bigger than I’m used to.” 

“He really hates the cage,” says Richie the macaw guy. “Just so long as you don't let him out the house, he’ll be fine. Won’t you, Malcolm?” he croons to the bird.

For a guy who drove a hard bargain and is pocketing a big fee for his movie star bird, he seems pretty casual about it now. 

“Be a good boy then,” he says, and to Arthur, “I’ll collect him tomorrow afternoon.”

“Sure, fine, enjoy your trip!” says Arthur, eager to get rid of him so he can get changed.

The breeches really are tight, the sash is tricky to get right and how the hell do you wear a sword without tripping over it?

He smooths the second tattoo sticker (the anchor) on his forearm (the bluebird is on his shoulder) and flicks the flouncy cuffs down over his hands. 

The note, written on a scroll with charred edges, is tied to the front door handle. “X marks the spot,” it says, “come and find Blackbeard’s treasure.” He blushes at the very thought of it, but it’s a case of go big or go home.

He lets Malcolm out of his cage and tells him to “be a good boy”. There’s no end to the compromising situations he’s let himself get into for this.

Eames’ clothes are laid on the bed, the eyepatch is in position and he’s just pondering how to get into a hammock wearing skin-tight pants and a fucking sword when Eames’ key rattles in the lock. He doesn't call out a greeting, though. In fact, his footsteps don’t advance into the entryway. Arthur’s a bit busy with the whole hammock situation, realizing too late that it might have been a good idea to practice ahead of time. Do you sit in it and swing your legs up? But then the sword … Surely going in head first won’t work? And why did he have to sling it so high? Just getting his ass on the side for the leg-swinging maneuver is a bit tricky …

“Shiver me timbers!”

Arthur sprawls on the floor.

“Ow!”

“Arggghhh! That’s not very piratical, matey!”

Eames is grinning down at him, waving the note. “Blackbeard? Do I ’ave to come down there and get yer treasure?”

He reaches for Arthur’s hand at the exact second Malcolm poops from the ceiling beam and lets out an unholy shriek. The splat lands on Eames’ shoulder. He looks up at the bird. “Avast, foul creature!” says Eames.

Arthur scrambles up, rubbing his backside. “Ow! Fuck!” he says.

Eames turns back to look him up and down, his eyes lingering, gleaming, on the tight pants, before sweeping back up to his face. “Ooh, Blackbeard!” he says, “that eyepatch is very dashing, my dear.” He steps forward and grabs the frilly front of Arthur’s shirt, pulling him in for a kiss. He rubs his cheek on Arthur’s stubble and growls in his ear, grabbing his ass. “These breeches are awfully fitted. How are you going to walk the plank in them?”

Arthur’s laughing so much he has to lean against Eames. That’s one of the many really great things about Eames, he doesn’t hold back.

“Hope you got some breeches for me too,” he says, holding Arthur upright with a broad hand on his ass.

Arthur can only nod weakly and point at the bed. Eames spins round and sees the the wine-red pair. “Splice the mainbrace!” he says.

“That’s kind of the idea,” says Arthur. Overhead, Malcolm screeches.

Eames pulls his shirt off over his head and drops his pants, reaching for the breeches. He has to shimmy his hips to get into them. Arthur’s lying on the bed, watching. “Yo ho ho!” he says, still giggling.

Eames winks, and bends to pick up the boots, giving his ass an extra wiggle. He has to sit down to pull them on, and he runs his hand up Arthur’s thigh to the noticeable bulge at his crotch. “May have to get these off yer soon, Blackbeard,” he says, leering comically. 

“Think I'm easy, do you?” Arthur jumps up and tries to draw his sword with a flourish. It gets a bit stuck in the sash, but when he has it out, he brandishes it at Eames. “My treasure is not so easily won!”

Eames has the boots on now but he’s still shirtless. He grabs his own sword and leaps on to the bed, making a few sweeps in Arthur’s direction. Arthur’s trying not to frown, but he’s obviously not doing a perfect job. Eames jumps off the bed with such a look of mock contrition that Arthur has to laugh. He advances, stabbing and thrusting, which Eames easily parries, and they dance around each other till they are breathless with exertion and laughter, and Eames drops his sword.

“I surrender! Take me, Blackbeard!” 

Arthur lets his own sword clatter to the floor. Malcolm shrieks in alarm, but Arthur doesn't spare the bird a glance as he struts towards Eames and wraps his hands around his biceps, walking him backwards to the bed, crowding up close, pushing him down and crawling over him. He lifts Eames’ hands over his head and holds them there. Eames is grinning up at him, sweat sheening his heaving chest. Arthur bends down, pushing his hips into Eames’, and licks his way up his chest, drawing a gasp from him as he swirls his tongue round a nipple and, turning so the stubble on his cheek scratches lightly, blows across the damp skin. Eames’ breath shakes. Arthur looks up, meeting Eames’ eyes, hooded and intense. No one’s playing a role in this moment.

The extreme tightness of the breeches is now uncomfortably obvious and he kneels back up, pulling at the sash and lifting the shirt over his head. The fabric catches on the eyepatch, dragging it off too, but Arthur doesn't care. He tosses the shirt aside and drops his hands to the breeches, secured by a multitude of tiny buttons. “Fuck!” he mutters, struggling with shaking fingers to undo even one. 

“Let me,” says Eames, in his normal voice. His hands aren't too steady either, but together they get enough buttons open for Arthur to push the pants down. Eames raises his hips and gestures at his own situation. Fortunately, his breeches, tight as they are, have a simple fly and Arthur is able to undo it quickly. But now they have both to confront the problem of kickass boots. 

“Damn, we didn't think this through,” he says, laughing, trying to stand up with his pants around his hips. 

“Think?” says Eames.

They sit on the edge of the bed, both bending to get their boots off. Eames sits back up first, his hand on Arthur’s shoulder blade. “What’s this, love?”

Arthur's still tugging at his left boot. “What?”

“This.” Eames ducks his chin and bites at Arthur’s shoulder. 

The bluebird. “Oh, that. I was going for authenticity.” 

“Mmm, pretty.” Eames’ mouth buzzes against his skin as he licks at the fake tattoo. Arthur suppresses his feeling of being ridiculous. It's only a game. 

Then the awareness that they’re both still half dressed in stupidly tight breeches reasserts itself. Arthur pushes at his pants, kicks them off and turns to Eames, who is reclining on his elbows. He gestures at the wine-red velvet. “Are you going to undress me, sir?” he says, slipping back into the game. Arthur gets his hands under the waistband and pushes them slowly down, leaving Eames naked and grinning up at him.

“I'm going to take you now,” says Arthur, straddling Eames and pushing him down onto the bed again, grinding up against him, their cocks bumping. 

“Ravish me!”

“Oh, I will, you’ll be screaming my name.” 

Eames laughs, sounding entirely delighted, and Arthur grabs the lube. Eames pushes himself further onto the bed, sprawling to give Arthur access, licking his bottom lip in the way that drives Arthur crazy. He’s distracted by the need to kiss that mouth, while acutely aware how hard he is, how hard Eames is. He slicks one hand, slips the other up behind Eames’ head, into his hair, tugging lightly and angling his face into their kiss, while reaching for his cock. Eames’ hips jerk convulsively and he bites at Arthur’s mouth. Arthur gives his cock a slow pull, up, and back down, relishing its heavy heat, and then pushes his hand down, trailing his thumb, while his finger skims Eames’ hole, tracing the edge, before sinking in, a little way, then deeper in response to Eames’ high-pitched intake of breath, the way his hand tightens on Arthur’s bicep, the way his back arches, away, and the way he pushes back, seeking more. There’s nothing else in Arthur’s mind now, just Eames, and how much he wants Arthur, and how much Arthur wants Eames. He always loves making Eames slowly fall apart, but there’s more urgency this time, fueled by their earlier laughter. 

“More, now!” Eames gasps, breathless, drawing his knees higher, and Arthur presses in with another finger, his other hand on Eames’ cock now, thumb brushing across the leaking tip, and Eames pants out his name: “Darling! Now! Now!” 

Arthur scrambles to comply, and Eames breathes out a long sigh as he enters him. Now there is only the sound of both their panting breaths and of skin slapping together as Arthur fucks Eames deep, trying not to move too fast, too soon, but struggling to hold back. He’s so wound up from before, not the pirate nonsense but from laughing with Eames, that he can feel his orgasm building, threatening to crash over him all too soon. Eames tilts his hips, locks his ankles around Arthur’s waist, changing the angle, and lets out a shuddering, wordless half-shout and Arthur can’t hold back anymore. He comes, panting and gasping harshly. Eames keeps him close, reaches for his hand, closes it on his cock and comes almost immediately. Arthur collapses on his chest and they lie together, bathed in cooling sweat, sticky with Eames’ come, trembling.

“Shiver me timbers,” whispers Arthur.

“Darling,” says Eames, “I’m too shattered to scream your name.”

Arthur shifts off him and reaches for something to clean up with. The flouncy shirt is the first thing he finds. Eames laughs and pulls Arthur close again and they drift to sleep.

*

Overhead, Malcolm screeches, waking them. Eames glances blearily up at where the bird is perched on a rafter, looking down at them. 

“I forgot we had an audience! Shut up, foul fowl!”

“At least he didn’t poop on you again,” Arthur says, dissolving into giggles all over again.

“A very good thing.” Eames rolls on top of Arthur. “You went all out for pirate authenticity, didn’t you? But what I want to know is, why pirates?”

“Because you said you had a thing for pir—”

“A thing for pirates? A pirate kink? When did I say that?” His forehead is creased in bafflement.

“I heard you. You said you always wanted to be a pirate …” Now Arthur’s feeling foolish again.

“Oh my god! You overheard me talking to Yusuf? That was when I was a kid! Didn’t you have a pirate phase?”

“Eames! Why did you go along with it?” Arthur can feel the blush sweeping over his face. “Why didn’t you tell me I’d got it wrong?”

“And spoil the fun? You’d gone to so much trouble. And besides, it was sexy, you have to admit. Oh darling! Don’t be embarrassed!” Eames pulls back the hand Arthur has clamped over his eyes. “I loved being ravished by Blackbeard. With his stubble and his eyepatch and his frankly pornographic breeches.”

Arthur can’t stay embarrassed in the face of Eames’ delight.

“But you know I love being ravished by my Arthur with bed head and a stretched T-shirt, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. Just as well too. You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find a parrot to rent.”

The sound of Eames’ mirth startles Malcolm into taking off with a screech.

“I would believe it, but nothing is beyond a man as good at research and planning as you, my love. How long do we have to tolerate the creature?”

“Richie’s coming to fetch him tomorrow,” says Arthur. “We just have to keep George out till then.”

*

Eames insists on wearing the wine-red breeches and the shirt slashed to _there_ and the kickass boots _and_ the eyepatch when Richie arrives to collect Malcolm. He rubs his stubbled cheek against Arthur’s neck as he hands the cage to the bird’s owner.

“Were you a good boy, then?” Richie croons.

“Oh he _was_ ,” says Eames, dropping him the most theatrical wink. “He was.”

“I told you he was real friendly,” says Richie, not batting an eye, taking the bag of bird food from Arthur. “You take care now, and if you could leave a good review on my site, that’d be great.”

“We will!” says Eames. “Bye, Malcolm!” And he closes the door behind Richie.

“Eames, what the fuck?”

But Eames just raises an eyebrow and drags Arthur back to the bedroom, where George is sprawled on the bed.

“Not another bloody voyeur. Get out, cat!” Arthur shoos him. He turns back to Eames. “My turn to be ravished, sir?”

“Splice the mainbrace!” says Eames, “Shiver me timbers!”


End file.
